


I Know What Kind of Crazy I am

by bingo_boingo_boyo



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Crime Scenes Are Bad For Mental Health, Gen, Hannibal AU, Jonathan Sims Is a God Damn Mess, M/M, Profiler Jon, Serial Killer Elias, of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-11 17:59:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13529613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bingo_boingo_boyo/pseuds/bingo_boingo_boyo
Summary: The crime scene stood before Jon in all its bloody glory. He had been told to look, and look he would, whether it was willing or not.





	I Know What Kind of Crazy I am

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I don't actually own anything.

The pipe ran from ceiling to floor. Jon had run into it many times, stumbling up from the archive and the past after he had been made to step back into both. Usually, the metal tubing that spanned the doorway of the archive hung empty, with the exception of the occasional Martin-approved holiday decoration. 

Today, the body of Jurden Leitner hung from the pipe.

The steady drip of blood hitting the burnished wood floor pounded in time with Jon’s heart as he gazed at the spectacle. The twisted corpse of the once-prolific agent was mangled nearly beyond recognition. It was only Jon’s own dealings with the man that allowed him to recognize the mutilated face at all.

Elias had come to him when the body was discovered, simply holding the door open. Jon had stood up, immediately understanding what Elias wanted him to do. He silently followed the man as he was lead through the winding halls of the archive to that dreaded pipe. It wasn’t until they stood in front of it, gaze fixed upon it that Elias spoke. 

“Look. See.”

Jon sighed. Of course he would look. That’s why he was there at the Institute after all.

“Jon,” Martin quietly interrupted Jon’s thoughts., hand coming up to rest gently on Jon’s shoulder. “You know you don’t have to do this, right?” 

Jon shrugged, Martin’s hand slipping from his shoulder. 

“Martin, I know your usefulness to this institution is remarkably limited, but for those of us who desire more than the perfunctory pat on the back, there are certain obligations that must be fulfilled.” He paused, taking in a deep breath, before exhaling it with a badly suppressed shudder. “This… This is mine.”

Jon repressed a flinch at the critical look Martin sends him. For all his lack of skill as a functioning member of the archive, Martin was remarkably skilled with people, able to pick apart their facial expressions and body language to know nearly everything about them.

The look that had just passed over Jon told him that Martin had caught the shudder and every other nuance Jon just did not want to talk about. Thankfully, Martin chose to merely give a skeptical hum before leaving, instead of staying to dig further into this.

It wasn’t that Jon didn’t want to talk about it, he did. There were certain things that changed within as you worked this job, diving deeper into the twisted minds of monsters that seemed to step out of nightmares. However, Elias’ warning hund heavy in his mind from when he first accepted the position.

“What you see will be your weight to bear, Jon. If you tell someone, I can’t promise you or the individual will walk away from it.”

At the time, he has cast it off. But now, with the claws of all kinds of monsters digging their way into his corners of his mind, Jon ached for someone else to know what he saw.

Jon suddenly plunged back into reality, like someone had shoved him back into his body with no care for his thoughts. He was left with nothing to postpone him from the gruesome pipe display. With a heavy sigh, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a tape recorder. His thumb hesitated over the record button, before it slammed down.

Jon closed his eyes, and began to speak.

“Statement of Jurgen Leitner’s scene. Recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of The Magnus Institute.”

Jon paused, opening his eyes and letting the gruesome spectacle rewind, throwing him into the crime and someone else’s mind.

“I hate this man,” Jon began, words laced with poison. “He is a farce, a disgrace to everything I stand for. His reputation is built on an understanding so childish, so false I cannot let it stand. That is the fact of the matter. It is not the motivation.”

“This man is a worm, a lumbering bull in my delicately arranged game. He came to me, thinking he could stop me. He hid below my puppets’ feet and waited to strike. Unfortunately for him, he mistook me for the prey.”

A smile spread across Jon’s face, unnaturally sharp and a poor fit for his face.

“I start with a smaller pipe, using it to cave in the skull. I avoid any strike that could damage the eyes. I exhale on each impact, using the pipe to disfigure the face, though I do not do it to conceal his identity. I know he will still be recognized.”

“I take the body down to the archive. I remove the eyes with the scalpel I keep hidden in my sleeve.” 

Jon paused.

“The eyes are mine.”

Out of nowhere, Jon straightened, voice hardening as ice began to coat his voice. 

“I then open the mouth and force the body onto the pipe. As I pull the body up, I feel the organs inside rupture. I continue pulling until the pipe emerges from the opposite end.”

“This is my design.”

There was a long silence.

Jon shuddered, abruptly collapsing as he withdrew from someone else’s mind. From someone else’s darkness. When his eyes fluttered open, Martin’s face hovered, worry distorting the friendly features. Jon’s eyes flew shut immediately after as his head throbbed with the influx of light.

“Jon?” Martin asked, “Can you hear me?”

A low groan escaped between clenched teeth as Jon lay on the floor, unable to convince his eyes to open. In fact, standing up seemed a near-impossible feat.

“Jon?” Martin asked again, panic starting to paint his voice. “Jon, are you back?”

“Martin,” Jon managed to grit out, “If you don’t shut up and get me an aspirin this instant, I will fire you.”

There’s an audible click as Martin’s mouth closes. Jon listens as Martin stands and his footsteps begin to fade back into the archive. As he leaves, so does Jon’s grip on the world.

The next time Jon is aware of anything, the surface underneath him is far softer than the wood floor of the Institute. The pounding in his head has receded to a dull ache and there is a someone standing over him.

Jon cracks his eyes open and is greeted with the composed, smooth face of Elias Bouchard.

This time, the groan that escapes is not one of pain but of embarrassment.

“Please tell me I wasn’t carried to my office.” Jon demanded.

Elias raised an eyebrow. “I thought we established a policy of honestly between us?” He dryly retorted.

“Perfect,” Jon grumbled. “Please tell me Tim didn’t see; I already have so little credibility with him.”

“I just mentioned our honesty policy, Jon.” Elias drawled in retort.

“Well.” Jon bit out, struggling to sit up, “I suppose I should be prepared for relentless ridicule the next time I see him, then?”

Elias fixed Jon with a pale, icy gaze. “Jonathan. Whom do you think brought you here?”

Jon’s mouth twisted in thought, mental gears nearly audible as they processed the question. His eyes widened as the answer presented itself.

Elias smiled, a sharp, unnatural thing. “Yes indeed, Mr. Stoker did indeed carry you here.” He stood, suddenly seeming to fill the room. “Have some faith in your assistants, Jon. I wouldn’t have picked them if I didn’t think the could provide some… assistance to you.”

“Come see me when you’re recovered. We need to discuss recent developments.” With a swish of his coat, Elias was gone.

Jon fell back against the couch, suddenly too tired to remain upright. 

“Jon?” A timid voice asked.

“Yes, Martin?” Jon rasps, exhaustion coloring his voice into unrecognizability. 

“Can I get you anything?” A small smile curled across Martin’s face. “Anything beyond yet another asprin?”

Moving his head took too much effort, leaving Jon to gaze at the ceiling. “No, Martin,” he breathed out. “Not unless you can make this all go away.”

**Author's Note:**

> And that's all folks. I might be persuaded to write some more in this verse, but I don't have any particular plot laid out.


End file.
